Never, ever accept unidentified parcels
by Morgaur
Summary: In which I (Morgaur) learn the hard way not to accept such parcels - and Tuor, Idril, Earendil and Maeglin meet The World. My contribution to the Plushie Project.
1. Parcel Panic

**Well, I _finally_ managed to get round to posting this. It's been in the works for I-don't-know-how-long, just gathering dust (figuratively) in my hard drive. Anyway, here it is: my contribution to the Plushie Project! Enjoy.  
Many thanks to RandomCelt of thewayfaringstrangers for beta-ing!**

* * *

It was four forty-five on a Saturday evening. The sun was dipping towards the horizon, the trees casting long shadows across the fields round Morgaur's home.

He was sat at the base of a hillock, leaning back on the grass, watching a red kite circle lazily high above. A dirty plate and an empty mug lay next to him. He yawned. It had been a tiring day.

His parents and younger siblings had left for a three-day stay in London that morning, and he had been given a list of chores which he was sure, had they been written down, would have taken up about ten sheets of A4 paper. Acting on the principle 'work now, play later' he had done them at lightning speed, rushing up and down stairs and in and out of rooms all day, getting rather sweaty and severely puffed. Half an hour ago he had finished, had a welcome shower and made himself a very late lunch (or an early dinner), which he had eaten outside. Now he was enjoying a well-earned rest.

Overhead the kite suddenly folded its wings and swooped down with tremendous speed. He heard a faint thump as it hit the ground just five hundred metres away. Morgaur sniffed. It was a pity he hadn't brought his binoculars out with him; he could have seen what it was the bird was eating.

The sound of an engine broke the silence of the afternoon. He sat up and glanced down the driveway to see a black car driving up towards the house. A faint frown quirked his brows. It was three o'clock; the post had come already and he had not been told of any deliveries to be made while his parents were gone.

The car came on and stopped outside the front door. A tall woman with long, lank, brown hair got out and glanced up at the house.

"Hey!" Morgaur called, standing up and hurrying towards the woman, who turned and looked at him.

"Is this ******* *****?" the woman asked, even though the name was written in four-inch high letters on a wooden panel beside the door.

"Yeah," Morgaur replied, looking her up and down. She looked rather official, wearing a formal black suit which did not match her hair. However, Morgaur felt there was something slightly off about her. He couldn't quite place it, but the fact that she had extremely dark eyes with no whites visible may have had something to do with it. Also the odd, rank smell that she seemed to give off, reminiscent of burning hair with a hint of toffee. He wrinkled his nose.

"Are you ******** *******, also known as Morgaur?" the woman asked.

Morgaur blinked in surprise, taking a step back. "Yes, I am, but why are you asking?" he replied, slightly panicked. A horrible thought struck him, and he started babbling a bit. "If you're from J. K. Rowling, as far as I know posting things on is not illegal. I mean, it's not like I'm claiming her work or anything…oh my god, I didn't put a disclaimer on my fic, I'm sorry, I'll put one up, is that-"

The woman held up a thin, bony hand and Morgaur felt his voicebox contract and his babble stopped short.

"Don't worry," she said, her lips smiling but the rest of her face unmoving. "It's nothing to do with that. I just have a consignment for you."

"F-for me?" Morgaur asked, bewildered.

"Yes," she replied, leaning into the car and removing a large cardboard box, which she dropped on the floor at his feet. Or rather, on his feet. He winced. Luckily, it wasn't too heavy.

"Uh," Morgaur started, but she had already got back into the car.

"Wait," he began, holding up his hand, but she was reversing in preparation for turning.

"Hold on," he tried, waving his arms and stepping forwards, but she finished turning and shot off down the drive, moving fast enough to break the speed limit ten times over. He would not have been surprised if it had broken the sound barrier.

"What in the what in the what?" Morgaur said, staring at the cardboard box.

He stood there for a good five minutes, gazing down the drive then at the box in alternation, occasionally repeating the word 'what' with varying intonation, before finally stirring himself to do something.

He picked the box up and carried it inside, then went back out to collect his plate and mug. Dumping them in the overly-large kitchen sink, he rummaged in a drawer to find a knife, which he used to slit open the tape holding the box shut. Gently and carefully he flipped it open, prepared for anything.

Anything, that is, except for what was in the box.

There were five plush figures inside, all but one about a foot tall - the odd one out was perhaps half a foot tall. There was a female figure, with golden hair and wearing a red, wide-sleeved dress; it had a bodice of some brown fabric and it held a short knife of silver cloth. The others were male figures; one was taller than the others, also golden of hair, with blue eyes. It wore a perfectly designed hauberk, sewn with such skill that it seemed to have individual links. Morgaur fingered it gingerly, half expecting to feel steel, but felt only cloth. In one hand there was a long sword of silver cloth; in the other a round shield of black fabric with a silver mountain and tower embroidered on it. The small figure, yet again, had golden hair and blue eyes; it was dressed in clothes of green and gold and held a knife identical to the female figure.

The last two were different to the others: one was slender, dark-haired and pale-skinned, with dark black eyes. It had on a hauberk as well, and carried a sword but no shield. The other was black skinned and very bulky, with a massive straight sword with a hooked end in its hand and armour that looked similar to the armour of the Uruk-hai in the film _Lord of the Rings._

Morgaur shook his head in disbelief. He picked them out, slowly, one at a time, and laid them down on the counter.

"Seriously," he muttered to himself, "who on earth was that woman, and why in the name of all that's fabric-made did she give me these?"

Just then, one of them - the orc figure - twitched.

"Wha-?" Morgaur said, and picked it up. It twitched again and then suddenly came to life.

"HOLY MOLY!" Morgaur yelled in shock, dropping the orc onto the floor with a crash - it's armour had turned into steel - and wringing his hand. Blood dripped from a three-inch long cut the orc's sword had inflicted on the fleshy part of his thumb. The orc scrabbled about for a second and then leapt to its feet. It whirled around a couple of times, as Morgaur slowly edged away, clutching his bleeding hand, then fixed its eyes on him and charged, giving vent to a roar that was probably meant to sound terrifying but due to its size came out as a slightly high-pitched squeal. The sound still terrified Morgaur, who yelled in fright again and leapt backwards, slipped and fell onto the tiles, cracking his elbow hard.

"Agh! H- that hurt!" he swore, scrabbling to his feet as the orc swiped at his feet with its straight sword. He half ran, half fell into the next room - which was his study room - where he seized the first thing that came to hand: an eleven-inch tall, two-inch thick hard-backed Biology textbook (Biological Science 1 & 2), turning the air blue with swearwords too numerous to list in full. The orc came skidding round the corner and stopped, facing him, sword held ready to strike. It snarled, showing yellow fangs, and began to advance slowly towards him.

Morgaur didn't wait to let it get close. He heaved the massive book at it, and to his surprise scored a glancing blow on the orc's side. There was a crack and the orc howled in pain, dropping the blade with a clatter and clutching its sword arm, staggering to one side.

"Yeah, f-, that's it," Morgaur gasped, grabbing another text-book only slightly smaller than the first. This time he didn't throw it, but approached the orc (which growled at him and, letting go of its arm, drew a knife from its belt) and, raising the book high above his head, swatted the orc with it as hard as he could. There was a loud crunch and the orc sprawled on the floor, head at a crazy angle.

"Take that, motherf-er," Morgaur shouted, pounding the orc with the book in a fear-and-pain-induced frenzy about a dozen times, cursing with each blow.

Suddenly he remembered the other four figures still in the kitchen. He stopped pounding the orc, looked at the book and dropped it with a yelp of disgust (the cover was bloody), stood up and, armed with yet another textbook, advanced cautiously into the kitchen.

The clash of steel greeted him as he entered, and he saw the two large male figures engaged in a violent swordfight on the glass kitchen board, while the female figure stood protectively in front of the child one, knife raised, in the corner behind the kettle.

"Hey!" Morgaur yelled as loud as he could. "Would one of you please tell me just what the f-ing h- is going on? And who the h- are you lot?"

The two male figures stopped fighting with a simultaneous start of fright, and the female figure jumped and clutched her child closer.

The two male figures looked at each other and then back at him.

The golden-haired one stepped towards the female, sword at the ready.

"I am Tuor son of Huor, of the House of Hador. This is my wife, Idril Celebrindal, daughter of Turgon, High King of the Noldor, and my son Eärendil. That there is the traitor Maeglin son of Eöl the Dark Elf. Who are you, and where are we?"

Morgaur staggered backwards a step and dropped his book.

"Holy…" he started, then fell silent, lost for words.

Finally, he found his voice.

"Well," he said, "f- me, right?"

* * *

A black-suited Maia, tall and thin with long brown hair, strode into Thangorodrim's Entrance Court. A bored-looking Balrog on guard duty barred her path with a blazing axe. Though the function of the axe was ceremonial - he had a massive four-barrelled shotgun on his back - the weapon was still deadly.

"Pass, please," he growled, sounding like blocks of lava were stuck in his throat.

The Maia sighed and pulled an etched-steel card from an inner pocket, handing it to the guard. He took it, scrutinised it closely, and handed it back. She took it gingerly - it was red-hot - and waved it in the air to cool it down.

"You're clear," the guard grunted, moving his axe out of the way. The Maia nodded and went on. Inside the monstrous steel gates she detoured through crowds of hurrying orcs to an obsidian desk, behind which sat an elf in a shirt and tie, typing away efficiently at a computer.

"Hello, ma'am," the elf said, pausing his typing.

"Is Mairon in his office?" the Maia asked, ignoring the elf's greeting.

"Hold on while I check please, ma'am," the elf replied.

He tapped on a few keys.

"Yes he is, ma'am. Would you like me to request a meeting for you?"

She nodded. "Do it."

"Yes, ma'am." The elf pressed a key and spoke into a microphone attached to an earpiece he was wearing. "Special Courier Angwen to see Vice President Mairon," he said, listened for a moment and then glanced up at the Maia. "You're to go straight down, ma'am."

Without a word of thanks, or any form of acknowledgement, she turned and strode off, leaving the elf gazing after her retreating rear end wistfully.

* * *

Morgaur ran a trembling hand through his hair and moistened his lips.

"Are - are you serious?" he asked. "I mean, are you really…who you say you are?"

The golden-haired warrior looked affronted.

"Of course I am who I say I am. Or would you doubt the word of a Lord of Men, the heir of the House of Hador?"

Morgaur blinked. "No," he said, "I - I guess not."

He cast about for something to say, but drew a blank.

"Well?" Tuor snapped. "Answer my question. Who are you, and where are we?"

"Uh. Okay," Morgaur started, then stopped and took a deep breath. "This is going to be really, really hard for you to understand, but you are in a different world."

Tuor blinked and looked across at the woman - Idril, Morgaur thought - then back at Morgaur again.

"A different world? How so?"

Morgaur shrugged helplessly. "I don't know! All I know is that in this world, there is a book written by a man named Tolkien in which he tells your tale, the tale of Arda, from the beginning right up to the end…"

"WHAT?" Maeglin cried, making Morgaur jump. He'd forgotten Maeglin was there.

"The entire tale of Arda?" Maeglin went on, eyes gleaming. "Give it to me, give it to me now! I must have it! I must know what will happen!"

"Uh, you don't want to do that," Morgaur said, slowly regaining his calm. "You seriously do not want to do that. In any case, it won't help you since I have no idea how you're going to get back."

A soft, musical voice cut in.

"How did we get here, friend?" Idril asked, coming forward to stand beside her husband.

Morgaur stiffened. "Wait a minute…that woman! She must have - but - how…"

"You're not making sense," Tuor said testily.

"Well," Morgaur explained, "you sort of got delivered. Some weird woman showed up in a car and dumped you lot on my feet. Literally. Then she just drove off." He paused and thought for a second. "And she didn't have a numberplate."

"What is a car?" Tuor asked, simultaneous with Maeglin asking, "What is a numberplate?"

Morgaur stared at them and raised a hand to his head. "Oh…my…god," he moaned. "I have got so much to do now."

A rattling groan from the doorway caught everyone's attention. The orc was standing there, hunched over, left arm dangling helplessly, teeth smashed and shards of bone projecting from various places, but it still held its sword menacingly.

"Not dead?" Morgaur yelped, snatching up the textbook from the floor and throwing it at the orc. His aim was off, however, and the book slammed into the wall half a foot to the right.

"Oh, crud," he muttered, casting about for another weapon in a quickly renewing panic as the orc growled and began limping forwards, lurching awkwardly with every other step. Just then there was a loud meow and a black streak shot by Morgaur and pounced on the orc, which barely had time for a guttural squeak before being dragged off.

Morgaur's legs gave way at the knees and he slumped to the ground, leaning his head against the oven with a sigh of relief.

"I'd have lent you my sword, or better yet dealt with the orc myself, but I couldn't risk leaving this traitor with my wife and child," Tuor said, glaring across at Maeglin, who glared back and raised his sword.

"You stole her love!" he snarled, and took a step forwards.

"Oy!" Morgaur shouted, standing up. Maeglin jumped and swung round angrily.

"Keep out of this," he hissed. "It is nothing to do with you!"

"Maybe not," Morgaur retorted, "but you're in my house and you'll abide by my rules or —" he opened a draw and pulled out a meat hammer — "I'll brain you with this, understand?"

Maeglin stared at the meat hammer and nodded.

"Right. First rule — no weapons. I want all your weapons — all of you," Morgaur added, pointing the rolling pin at Tuor, who looked offended but did not argue, instead sheathing his sword, unbuckling it and offering it hilt-first to Morgaur. Idril took Eärendil's knife and handed it, along with her own, to Tuor. Respectfully, Morgaur took the weapons and placed them on top of the kitchen dresser.

"Now," he said, "they're going to stay there until you leave here."

A thought struck him, and he blanched.

"If you ever do," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

**Reviews, people?  
Thanks!**


	2. Burnt Cakes, not Fish!

**Finally! Sorry this took so long. Enjoy!  
Cookies if you can tell me what the title is referring to. :)**

* * *

"So how will we return?"

Morgaur had moved the two elves, one human and one half-elf to his study room, to keep them in sight as he cleaned up the bloody mess from book-battering the orc earlier. Moving them had been a feat in itself, as Tuor and his family refused to go in the box with Maeglin, and Maeglin stubbornly refused to be carried. Eventually he'd agreed to ride on Morgaur's shoulder. They'd pestered Morgaur with no questions (Tuor), questions about how they'd got there and where 'there' was (Idril), whether he believed in Ilúvatar and by extension the Valar and if not, why (Eärendil) and whether they could read Tolkein's works and why not (Maeglin). This latest question was asked by Idril, who seemed a bit more cognisant of the fact that they were in an alternate universe where they were characters from a book.

Her question hung unanswered as Morgaur finished mopping the floor for the seventeenth time with slow deliberation. Having done so, he set the mop down and flopped down in his chair with a sigh.

"I…don't know," he admitted, pulling his glasses off and massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Well, that's great," Maeglin said, and Morgaur shot him an annoyed glare before realising that the elf actually seemed happy.

It seemed that the others had noticed as well.

"Uh…why?" Tuor asked suspiciously — the first even semi-civil thing he'd said to Maeglin since they'd arrived.

Maeglin spread his arms wide. "It should be obvious, even to your limited human intelligence." Morgaur coughed and raised an eyebrow, and Maeglin backtracked quickly. "Well, your personally limited intelligence, then."

"Just say why, traitor," Tuor growled in annoyance. Mentally, Morgaur sighed. Keeping the two from killing each other would not be easy. He had a sneaking suspicion that, if the worst came to the worst, he'd be on Maeglin's side. The elf seemed to have a much keener intellect than the human.

"Well," Maeglin began, "look at how we were there when we left. The elves were in constant defeat or hiding — the Noldor kingdoms all gone—"

"And whose fault was the fall of Gondolin?" Tuor snapped, his hand shooting to his sword hilt - or where his sword hilt would have been. The glare he aimed at Morgaur would have made him lose control of his bowels, if Tuor hadn't been so much smaller.

Maeglin smirked at Tuor's actions and carried on, acting as if Tuor hadn't spoken. "Thingol was hiding under Melian's skirts in Doriath, the Edain were scattered or slaves to Morgoth—"

"And what about you?" Tuor interrupted again, glaring venomously at Maeglin, who shook his head in a pitying manner and kept on talking.

"Basically, Morgoth was winning on all fronts, and there was no hope the Valar would help us. Here, no-one is trying to kill us, we have a good chance of evading Morgoth's troops, and it's a whole new world, a brave new world full of incredible things. What's not to like?" Maeglin gave Morgaur a sideways glance. "And of course our…friend…here will teach us all we need to know, won't he?"

There was no answer.

"********?" Maeglin called, cupping his hands round his mouth. Morgaur started and looked at him in surprise.

"Sorry, my mind was elsewhere...what?" he said, pushing himself wearily up.

"I said, you'll teach us all we need to know, won't you?" Maeglin repeated.

Morgaur blinked.

"Uh, sure, I guess…" he trailed off into silence.

"What?" Maeglin asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, nothing," Morgaur replied, "just wondering what you actually do need to know." He glanced at his watch.

"Holy…six-thirty?" he said incredulously. "Time flies…any of you guys hungry?" he asked, looking up.

Tuor glanced at Idril, who nodded, then turned to Morgaur.

"While I would hesitate to say that we are hungry, we do find ourselves in need of some sustenance," he said, before being interrupted by a scornful laugh from Maeglin.

"Save it, Tuor," he laughed, "it's not like your high courtly ways matter any more. Hungry, you say?" he added to Morgaur, before Tuor could respond. "Yes. Yes, we are hungry, or at least I am, and so I would assume are the others."

"Right," Morgaur said, gathering up mop and bucket, "what d'you guys say to some fish and chips?"

"I'll eat anything right now," Maeglin grinned, forestalling Tuor's presumably polite acceptance.

Morgaur grinned back. Yes, he'd definitely support Maeglin. Now there was an elf he could get along with.

"Just let me put these away, then I'll take you guys back into the kitchen," he said, moving towards the door. As he left the room, he heard Tuor begin expostulating at Maeglin.

"No killing each other while I'm gone," he called over his shoulder, grinning when he heard Maeglin call back, "I'll try not to, but I can't answer for Tuor."

A few minutes later they were all in the kitchen again, Maeglin sitting on the sideboards on one side of the room and Tuor and his family on the other. By an interesting coincidence, the side Maeglin was on was the one with the range and chip fryer, where Morgaur was.

Tuor and Idril were having a quiet conversation while Eärendil amused himself looking in a Where's Wally? book that Morgaur had pinched from his younger sister's room. Not that he didn't like Where's Wally? himself, but his sister had appropriated all the books, to Morgaur's mild irritation.

As Morgaur ripped open a bag of frozen chips, having just put the fish in the oven, he heard Maeglin singing softly to himself. That gave him an idea.

"Maeglin," he said, tipping the chips into the sizzling oil — Tuor and Idril started violently at the loud crackling, while Maeglin barely batted an eyelid — "are you fond of music?"

Maeglin glanced up at Morgaur.

"I should think so," he said. "Though I must admit, my tastes are not quite the same as the other elves'."

"That's fine," Morgaur replied, grinning as he pulled out his music player and earbuds. "This music probably isn't to most elves' taste. It's not to most people's taste either, come to think of it." He handed the earbuds to Maeglin. "Hold these next to your ears," he said, "and listen to this." With a tap of the thumb he started the song.

"_Bury all your secrets in my skin_

_Come away with innocence_

_And leave me with my sins…" _Morgaur sang quietly as he turned back to the chips, watching Maeglin out of the corner of his eye. The elf initially had a slightly bored, patient expression on his face, eyes half-closed…then, after about a minute and a half, his eyes suddenly shot open and he straightened up, all boredom gone from his face. Morgaur grinned, leaning over to pinch one of the earbuds.

"_You couldn't hate enough to love_

_Is that supposed to be enough?_

_I only wish you weren't my friend…"_

He handed the earbud back to Maeglin, who grabbed for it and pressed it against his ear again with some force.

"What is that?" Tuor asked, his voice wondering as he stared at his entranced rival.

"Slipknot," Morgaur answered, checking the chips.

"Slipknot? What's that?" Tuor asked, tearing his eyes away from Maeglin's entranced face and looking at Morgaur, who was wearing a rather smug grin.

"It's a band. A group of musicians who work together. The song he's listening to is called Snuff."

"Okay…" Tuor answered, looking confused.

Morgaur began to explain further, but was interrupted by Maeglin's rapturous voice.

"That…was…incredible," he gasped, lowering the earbuds and staring off into space.

"Thought you'd like it," Morgaur said. "Like to hear some more?"

Maeglin turned a pair of wide blazing eyes to him.

"Yes!"

Morgaur laughed, tickled pink at the elf's reaction to his first exposure to power metal but slightly unnerved by the strength of said reaction.

"Let's try something a bit more…_thrilling_. How 'bout—" he thumbed the screen, unplugging the earbuds and turning the speaker volume up to max, "Edguy - Golden Dawn."

Having listened to the song more times than he'd care to say, Morgaur knew it by heart. He tapped his fingers on the counter as it began, getting the melody, then started singing along.

"_He was born into this world_

_Living love but he got hurt_

_And he sighed when he beheld_

_The bleeding lamb…"_

Morgaur glanced at the elves and human and half-elf - oh what the cake, elves all of them. Maeglin had his eyes half-closed, moving his head and hands to the music - any more and he'd be headbanging. Morgaur stifled a laugh at the thought of a headbanging elf, and looked across at the others. Tuor managed to combine suspicious, disapproving, discomforted, and guiltily interested in one facial expression; Idril - bless her heart - was looking as if she was trying not to laugh at Tuor's face, and Eärendil had his fingers in his ears and his face glued to the Where's Wally? book.

Morgaur shook his head and started moving with Maeglin, a small grin on his face.

"********…" Idril said hesitantly, interrupting his dance.

"Yes?"

"Is your fish supposed to smell like that?"

"Crap!"

…

Angwen stopped outside the massive, finely wrought steel doors of Mairon's office. In the flowing letters of the Black Script that he himself had devised, engraving on the door proclaimed:

MAIRON

VICE PRESIDENT

ARDA UNDER MELKOR

Quickly Angwen checked her reflection in a small mirror she drew from an inner pocket, pushing her hair around slightly. Satisfied, she put the mirror back and took a deep breath before knocking. Just before her knuckles touched the door, though, it swung inwards silently.

Angband's psychologists had discovered that a creaky door reassured nervous people, since because doors were expected to creak in menacing situations the creak provided an element of normality. A door that opened smoothly and silently, preferably of its own accord, was infinitely more terrifying. To the uninitiated, that is. Angwen barely batted an eyelid, merely walking straight in.

The room was vast, easily the size of the Olympic Stadium in London. The floor sloped gently upwards to a point on the far wall that was about five metres higher than the door. In ranks arranged in concentric rings centred on that point were hundreds of computer stations, each with hardware that a university computer science department would be proud to have as a mainframe. At the aforementioned highest point there was a dais, and on the dais against the wall a massive throne reared, formed with exquisite workmanship out of a single massive piece of obsidian. On this throne, right leg over his left, sat Mairon, the second most powerful being in all Arda — and I'm not just talking about physical or mental power, but financial, and therefore absolute, power. For example, Mairon bought out Vingilot Express, Arda's most lucrative shipping company, offering alone seven times what two of the largest consortiums in Arda, Harad Investment and Rhovanion Inc. could muster in coalition.

Angwen strode up to the throne and knelt at the dais, bowing her head.

"My Lord Mairon," she murmured.

A long-fingered hand was laid upon her head in a vaguely benedictional manner.

"Rise, my dear Angwen," Mairon said, his voice soft and modulated. She stood in a smooth movement and gazed adoringly up at him from under her eyelashes.

He cut an odd contrast, in common with the entire room. Very tall, with deathly pale skin and shoulder-length black hair, he wore a three-piece single-breasted suit, the colour of midnight. A white rose in his buttonhole added a dash of colour and neatly complemented the rest of his outfit. The suit jacket, a cutaway, was tucked neatly under the hilts of the paired longsword and dagger dangling from opposite sides of his belt, both forged of the finest galvorn with sheaths of black spider-hide. Rumour was that the hide came from Ungoliant herself. To round off the clash of old and new, he wore a heavy circlet of steel from the back of which projected three gracefully curving spines. In the centre of the circlet, over the middle of his brow, was one of the three Silmarils. The other two were in Melkor's crown.

"Was your errand a success?" he asked, raising an elegant dark eyebrow.

"Yes, my lord," Angwen replied, dipping her head.

"Excellent," Mairon said, rising smoothly to his feet. "Come," he added, stepping down off the dais, "let us view the rushes, shall we?" As he walked across the hall to a computer station half again as big as the others, Angwen was struck yet again by his aura of infinite power. Melkor exuded greater might and awe, but somehow Mairon was subtler, more dangerous - a black panther to Melkor's lion, perhaps, or (more aptly) a neutron bomb to Melkor's hydrogen bomb. She followed him over to the workstation, where Mairon leant forwards, looking at the screen over the techielf's shoulder. The techielf, an old and grey-haired one with half-moon glasses, tutted without looking up.

"Sir," he said, with some asperity, "please do not lean over me like that. It is most offputting."

"Sorry," Mairon murmured equably, straightening up. "So," he went on, "have you got a pilot episode for me?"

"Certainly," the techielf replied, still intent on his work and otherwise ignoring the presence of the Maiar behind him, "A pilot episode and two subsequent episodes - pilot's thirty minutes long, the other two fifty minutes each, edited from the raw footage. Not that much cut out, just a few boring bits."

"Shall we view the pilot episode?" Mairon asked, sitting down on a large deskchair that appeared beneath him like magic - not magic really, just extremely efficient interns, which when you think about it is magic after all - and gesturing for Angwen to sit as well.

...

"Well," Mairon said, glancing at Angwen with raised eyebrows when the pilot had finished, "that boy shows potential, don't you think?"

"Man, my lord," she corrected, diffidently, and clarified when Mairon looked questioningly at her, "he is eighteen. Under the laws of his country, he is a fully emancipated adult."

Mairon smiled tolerantly. "Man, then," he said. "Wouldn't you agree that he shows potential?"

"Yes, my lord," Angwen agreed, not that she'd have told him any different even if she thought him the worst failure in the world.

"Death by textbook," the techielf cackled, bringing up an image of Morgaur frantically pounding the unfortunate orc with his Biology book. "That's one for the scrapbook. We've got a pool already, what level he'll reach. Care for a flutter, Lady Angwen?" he asked, turning to face her and Mairon for the first time.

"What have you picked?" Mairon asked the techielf, leaning back in his chair and twiddling his thumbs.

"Level twenty or completes the night," the techielf replied. "I figure if he's going to have any weaknesses, she'll be his."

Mairon nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face, as Angwen handed two twenty-malin notes to the techielf from the slimmest and sleekest of purses.

"Level seventeen or level twenty," she said. "Half-half."

"Thank you, Lady Angwen," the techielf said, holding his hand out behind him without looking, an intern appearing almost out of nothing to take the notes.

"Angwen, my dear," Mairon said, standing up - the chair vanished instantly - "as you are going to be the official tonight, I think you had better go?"

"Yes, my lord," Angwen answered, bowing her head.

As she strode off towards the door, she heard Mairon saying, "I'll have fifty on him completing the night, and maybe ten on level twenty."

...

Morgaur was standing at the sink, washing up the dinner things - he'd had a bit of trouble to find things the elves could use, eventually settling for sideplates and their fingers. Tuor and Idril were conversing in low voices while Earendil, who was after all still young, curled up and went to sleep with his head on his mother's lap. Maeglin sat on the counter beside the sink, chatting with Morgaur.

"So you're saying that you humans actually _flew_ to the moon?"

"Yeah," Morgaur replied.

"Nonsense. The moon is unreachable. No way are you going to fly up and catch Tilion."

Morgaur grimaced. "Hate to break it to you, but...she doesn't exist."

"WHAT!"

"No such thing. The moon is a massive ball of rock, nothing more and nothing less. The sun's the same - just a huge ball of fire."

"No."

"Yes, it is. And the earth goes round it."

"No, the sun goes round the earth, and it's driven by Arien."

"No it isn't. The earth is round like a ball, and it goes round the sun."

"Flat like a plate, and the sun goes round it."

"No-" a loud knocking at the door interrupted Morgaur, and he whirled round in shock.

"Crap!" he hissed. "Please just be someone wanting directions, please..." He shot a stern look at the elves. "Stay here, understand? No noise."

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he answered the door.

"You!"

* * *

**Who?  
Anyway, god but this took far too long to write. Blame Real Life for that.  
The currency is malins, from the Quenya mal, which I'm too tired to go check the exact meaning now.  
Warning: this ****_may_**** be going to get a bit ... violent. Dun wurry - I'm keeping it funny, I hope ;)**

**Songs are Snuff, by Slipknot: watch?v=fJXEerT4TCk  
and Golden Dawn, by Edguy: watch?v=eskxfoRE9ps.  
If anyone's interested.**

**Morgaur out.**


End file.
